


Best Seat in the House

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, First Time, Gay Bar, M/M, Stripper!Sherlock, bartender!John, gay strip club AU, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where John gets a new job bartending at a gay nightclub.  He takes the job for the money, but he keeps at it because he loves watching Sherlock dance.  Until one night, when Sherlock suggests they make it something rather more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A three-part little AU to keep y'all interested until Dear John wraps up :-) (Hint: the third part is pretty much entirely smut.)

John’s new job had plenty of drawbacks, but the view made up for most of them. Damn near all of them, in fact. Bartending involved standing on sore feet all night, the ever-present odor of stale alcohol, and enduring the pounding music and the drunken come-ons from “gentlemen” who were too far gone to realize they didn’t have a chance in hell of pulling him - but it also meant he had a perfect line of sight to the stage. And to Shezza.

Not that Shezza was the only performer at the club, by a long shot - there were half a dozen dancers taking turns on any given night - but he was easily the biggest draw. The crowd was twice the usual size on nights Shezza danced. More bodies meant more alcohol sales, which meant John was busy and Greg the manager was happy, but there seemed to be an unspoken accord that nobody buy their drinks while Shezza was actually on stage for fear of missing something. Which meant that during the important parts of the evening, i.e. when Shezza was performing, John was gloriously free to watch. He leaned against the counter, absently circling the same spot over and over with his cleaning rag, and just let himself appreciate the sight.

And oh, what a fabulous sight it was! Shezza came on stage, like usual, in a gorgeous slimline suit which accentuated his long limbs and high cheekbones. He winked cheekily at the few wolf-whistles he’d already accumulated, then cued his music with a flip of his head and started undulating slowly as the song built. His musical choices were night-and-day different from what the other dancers preferred, but it worked - instead of repetitive techno or heavy electric guitars, Shezza used something that sounded like a cross between rock and classical. John had no idea what, but the odd mix fit Shezza to a T.

As did his suit. John dropped the rag and stopped bothering to even pretend he was doing anything but staring. Tonight Shezza had a royal purple dress shirt on underneath the suit jacket, almost indecently tight. _Almost._ Actually, John reasoned, that was probably part of the appeal - Shezza’s outfit at the start of his routine wouldn’t be amiss in the posher parts of London. He looked like any rich bloke just out for a stroll on a long lunch break. (Any _gorgeous_ rich bloke, but still.)

As the music grew more evocative, though, so did Shezza. The jacket disappeared slowly, almost by magic - John couldn’t pinpoint when, exactly, Shezza took it off, only that one moment he was all buttoned up tight and proper and then some mesmerizing number of gyrations later, he was down to a tight pair of black dress slacks and a half-open purple shirt and John was drooling along with everyone else in the crowd.

Shezza loosened his tie, slowly, like he was debating whether they deserved to see him continue. Even though this was a regular part of the routine, the same thing Shezza did every night he was on stage, John still found himself holding his breath until Shezza finally yanked it off with a sharp _snap_ and began the tease in earnest. Through some sleight of hand the tie made its way over Shezza’s entire body - sliding over his shoulder, caressing his taut stomach, winding between his thighs and drawing tight to give the crowd a close-up of his incredible arse before reversing course and eventually ending up on the floor at the back of the stage. The belt met a similar fate, although not without a few whip-cracks which never failed to draw murmurs of appreciation from the kinkier men present.

“How’s the evening going?”

John jumped. It actually took a few seconds to come back down to earth. Earth, where his boss was watching him with an amused smirk and a knowing gleam in his eye.

“I know, I know,” Greg said. “He’s pretty impressive, isn’t he.”

“I, ah. Yeah.” John took a deep breath and forced his voice back to normal. “Evening’s going well so far - looks like we’ll be on par for the usual volume. I was just . . . taking advantage of a lull.”

“You were ogling that incredibly fine specimen onstage, was what you were doing.” Greg grinned. “Would have thought you’d be sick of the dancers by now - I know you’ve only been here a few weeks, but you’ve seen ‘em all four or five times over by this point. It’s not like they vary their routines much.”

John nodded toward the stage, where Shezza was currently sliding his palms down his abdomen and into the very open flies of his trousers. Where the sparkly black thong was already peeking through. “Dance like that and you don’t need to.”

“True enough - he’s certainly got enough groupies who don’t seem to care.” Greg’s expression turned serious. “Fair warning, though - for all he looks delectable on stage, Shezza’s not one you want to get mixed up with. You wouldn’t believe the diva tantrums he’s capable of.”

John would, actually - it was bloody obvious Shezza was the club’s biggest draw, and with that status came a not-inconsiderable amount of pull with the management. The talent didn’t come to the bar much - they were forbidden from drinking while working, which was probably a good thing - but John had still heard stories. Anderson, the soundboard bloke, could barely stop frothing at the mouth long enough to order a beer when he really got going on a tear about Shezza’s latest stunt. So far Shezza had (according to Anderson) caused two dancers to quit ten minutes before they were due on stage, started three fires in his dressing room, and caused an all-out brawl in the back alley between two rival lowlife bigwigs after spitting out a series of embarrassing and apparently true facts about each in the presence of the other. There was more, old grievances which spanned back to when Shezza first started dancing and the club was under previous ownership, but John usually was able to deflect Anderson before his sulks turned into epic drunken rants and included all the messy details.

 _Right._ “I’ve been warned,” John said. “But it’s kind of a moot point - he’s never come to the bar, so it’s not like I’m going to meet him anytime soon. And I do know the saying about not shitting where you eat.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to pretend that didn’t just give me a terrible mental image of what you two might get up to if you ever did get together. He’s probably a kinky bastard like that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not on a work night, but thanks.” Greg threw him a wink and stood up. “I’m gonna go make another round - holler if you need anything.”

“I will.”

He meandered off through the crowd, leaving John just enough time to appreciate the final five minutes of Shezza’s strip. It was nowhere near long enough to get his dick back under control before the post-Shezza bar rush hit, but that would have taken all night.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course Shezza proved him wrong. John had assumed the dancers would have all long since left - he’d just announced last call, the club was closing in a few minutes, and they were down to the usual two or three sluggish drunks eking every last minute out of their night’s cover charge. He’d already had to fend off half a dozen half-arsed proposals over the last hour or so - also par for the course, part of being a bartender, but really not as flattering as the men propositioning him probably thought. John knew he wasn’t anyone’s first choice, but he was a good listener and generally friendly and apparently that was enough for some blokes. Especially when everyone more shaggable had already gone home.

Therefore John was completely bowled over when Shezza himself stalked up from the backstage door, slung himself onto a stool, and ordered a rum and coke. He’d changed into black jeans and a skintight black t-shirt, but there was still a faint shimmer on his bare arms from whatever body paint he used on stage.

“So you’re John,” Shezza announced. “Greg wants to shag you but is too professional to take advantage of an employee. You actually tolerate Anderson when he’s drunk, which means you’re either astoundingly dull yourself or you’ve got the patience of a saint. Greg doesn’t usually go for idiots, so I find myself hoping it’s the latter.”

“I . . . thanks?” John slid Shezza’s drink across the laminated wood and settled what he hoped was a suitably non-besotted expression on his face. “Greg’s never said anything.”

“Of course not - he’s actually ‘good with people,’ which is why he’s still here.” Shezza made air quotes and rolled his eyes. “I’d go stark raving mad if I had to interact with half the complete morons he pacifies on a daily basis.”

“You don’t like people?” John tried not to notice how elegant Shezza’s fingers looked as he gripped his glass. “You do a damn convincing job of pretending when you’re up there, then. The crowd never responds to anyone else half as much.”

“That’s just biology.” Shezza took a sip and shot John a sultry look through his lashes which had John fighting to not lick his lips like a goddamned pervert. “The body language of physical attraction isn’t universal, but it’s surprisingly close. You haven’t once looked at the other two men still at the bar since I sat down, for example - which signals your interest in me, no matter how gentlemanly you’re trying to pretend you are.”

John glanced guiltily at the customers still at the other end of the bar. Both of them seemed more interested in their drinks than in the current conversation. “Shezza-”

“Sherlock, please. Shezza is my stage name and I’m not on stage.”

“Sherlock, then.” John leaned on the bar, not close enough to infringe on Sherlock’s personal space but near enough to ensure he wasn’t overheard. “Look, I won’t deny I think you’re gorgeous, but I didn’t take this job to get laid.”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock snorted. “That much is obvious - you’re recent military, invalided home with a war wound. Bartending is a steady source of income with very little responsibility, unlike what you did while deployed, yet it uses your social skills. I’m thinking . . . medical team? Nurse or doctor?”

John’s mouth dropped open. “Doctor. But how-”

“It’s obvious, surely.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side and studied John for a long moment. “I watch you too, you know, while I’m dancing. Your haircut says military, the way you move says recent injury, and the ease with which you interact with patrons practically screams “bedside manner.” You actually enjoy being around people - the attention is flattering, the way the men flirt and confide in you. It helps give you confidence despite the way your military career ended, making you feel useless. The occasional tremor in your hand says you can’t work as a doctor anymore, though, and an army pension is one step up from nothing at all, so here you are.”

John blinked a few times. “That was . . . amazing.”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to lock with John’s. “You think so?”

“Of course I do. Brilliant, that’s what that was. More honest than I’d like, but I can’t begrudge you that.” John let his expression finally settle into the grin that he’d been suppressing the entire conversation. “You’re bloody wasted as a dancer, you know.”

“What else would I be?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” John wrinkled his nose playfully. “A detective, maybe. Or a spy. I could see you as James Bond, putting all that body language and deductive reasoning to work.”

“Seducing my way across Soviet borders? No thanks.” Sherlock traced the rim of his glass with one long finger. “I’d much rather you take me home instead.”

“I - what?”

“You heard me, John.” The way he drawled John’s name was positively indecent. “I’ve just said I don’t enjoy people, and yet here I am chatting you up. Lestrade is locking up already, your other two customers are done with their drinks, and you’re diligent enough to have done most of your closing duties already as the night slowed down. We could be out of here in ten minutes and back at your flat - or mine - in twenty. Half an hour from now, I plan for the two of us to settle into whatever arrangement of poses you find the most sexually pleasing, as long as it involves your cock inside me. If you say yes, of course.”

John was treated to such a sudden and intense hard-on he was surprised he didn’t faint right there on the spot. “Yes. God, yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

It took slightly longer than ten minutes - John insisted on double-checking everything because his brain was too fried to get it all right the first time - but then he and Sherlock were half-walking, half-running down the street and Sherlock pulled him to a stop in front of a little cafe on Baker Street a few blocks away. 

“Yours?”

“Upstairs,” Sherlock answered. “My landlady’s a sound sleeper, but still best to be quiet on the way up.”

They snuck past the landlady’s door, up a longer flight of stairs, and through a door labeled 221B. John’s first assumption was that they’d ended up in the wrong flat. “Sherlock - is that a real skull? Friend of yours?”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. “Close as I’ve ever come to a friend, I suppose. Don’t tell me you really want to talk? I can think of much better things to be doing with my mouth.”

It was one of the cheesiest pickup lines in existence, but when combined with the smoldering eyefuck Sherlock was currently directing John’s way, it was effective. Astonishingly so. John took three determined steps forward, pinning Sherlock to the nearest wall in the process, and proceeded to snog him until Sherlock went limp and pliant against him and those long, elegant fingers were curled tightly around the nape of his neck.

“Anyone ever told you you’re a menace?” John growled against the side of Sherlock’s neck.

“Mmm, not usually - _oh!_ \- in those words,” Sherlock gasped. “Most of the time they just say ‘annoying.’”

John nipped gently at Sherlock’s earlobe, then laved the reddened flesh with the flat of his tongue. “No, this is completely different. I’m talking about how your mouth can be saying one thing and your expression is promising something else entirely. You say you’re not a people person, but you’re like liquid sex up there. Every man in the room is imagining what it would be like to fuck you, and you give them exactly what they want.”

“They don’t get everything, though,” Sherlock said quietly. “Only what I’m willing to give away in public. You, John Watson, have an entirely different type of invitation.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten.” John hitched his pelvis forward, grinding his hips into Sherlock’s. He could feel Sherlock’s erection even through two layers of pants and trousers. “And I hope this invitation includes your bedroom. Right now.”

“Nngh,” Sherlock groaned. “Do that again.”

John backed up instead, putting a few feet of space between them instead. “Bedroom,” he repeated.

Sherlock’s lower lip jutted out into a pout, but he led John down a short hallway into a large bedroom. It was surprisingly sparse, considering the level of clutter in the living room and what John could see of the kitchen as they went by, but the bed was large and inviting and very quickly acquired a languid-limbed Sherlock sprawled invitingly over the white duvet.

“God, you look gorgeous like that.”

Sherlock smirked and raised one eyebrow. “Going to come join me?” He stretched one long arm over his head and ran his other hand slowly down his chest in a motion straight from his stage routine. John had to suck in a sudden breath just to keep upright at the sight. Sherlock’s hips were twitching, now, tracing little circles against the softness of the bedspread-

“Stop,” John growled.

Sherlock froze, his hand only an inch away from his flies. The expression on his face was suddenly uncertain, but John knew what he wanted and this wasn’t it.

“Drop the performance,” he explained. “I don’t want you running on instinct - I want this to be a fuck you’ll remember for a very, _very_ long time.” He slowly ran his palm up his own chest and popped the top button on his shirt free. “We’re going to take it slow -” - another button - “- and you’re going to be _gagging_ for it by the end.” Another button. “And if you’re very, _very_ good -” - more buttons - “- I will shag you into the middle of next week.” John stripped off his shirt in slow, methodical motions and deposited it neatly on the nearby dresser. “If you’re not -” - he slipped off his shoes and socks - “- I’m going to keep you on the very edge all night and then ensure that only one of us walks out of here having seen God.” He stripped off his trousers with the same slow efficiency and laid them, neatly folded, on top of his shirt. “I’ll give you a hint - it won’t be you.”

 _“John.”_ Sherlock’s eyes were wide, his mouth already open as if he were imagining John’s cock inside it. Panting and horny and John had barely touched him yet.

“Up, on your knees,” John commanded. “I’m the one who’s going to strip us both tonight.”

Sherlock rolled gracefully up to a kneeling position at the edge of the mattress, his cock clearly visible through the tight jeans. His hands fluttered at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. John solved the dilemma by stepping forward, looming over him so Sherlock’s eyes were level with his naked chest. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and licked his lips, his gaze locked on John’s right nipple.

“John, may I-”

John leaned forward, rubbing against Sherlock’s soft lips. Sherlock needed no further invitation to explore. John tilted his neck back and fisted his hand in Sherlock’s dark curls, holding his head in place and reveling in how Sherlock’s lips and tongue were soothing and abrading him in turns. He was good, no doubt about that - and he seemed to be responding well to John taking charge, which was even fucking better. John had a very real moment of _pinch me, I’m dreaming_ before he eased away.

“Arms up.” He slid the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt up and over his head, dragging it off that lean body in one smooth movement. Sherlock did as he was told and remained silent.

“Gorgeous,” John said, and meant it. “Lie back, now, and let me see if I can make you scream.”

The speed with which Sherlock flopped flat onto the bed would have been comical if they hadn’t both been so keyed up. As it was, John stood there in only his pants for a long, glorious moment, just looking, before crawling up over Sherlock’s legs and settling in onto his thighs. Up close he could see Sherlock did have some body hair, soft wisps over his chest and abdomen, darkening into a barely-there accent just above the waistline of his trousers. Sherlock watched him with eyes that were nearly all pupil. John dropped a flat palm to Sherlock’s stomach and massaged the tense muscles gently before trailing it lower.

“Can’t wait to taste all this,” he murmured. “Watching you up there on stage - it’s been like the world’s longest foreplay.”

“I love seeing you watch me,” Sherlock answered quietly. “You don’t leer, you don’t laugh - you’re just so _focused._ Like I’m the center of your whole world right in that moment. Like I’m not interchangeable with any other dancer up there. I have to stop myself from just keeping my eyes on you the whole time. I’m paid to dance for everyone, but I’m _choosing_ to dance for you.”

 _Oh God._ John was going to say something embarrassingly sentimental in about two seconds if his mouth wasn’t otherwise engaged, so he opted instead to fold over double and swirl his tongue around Sherlock’s navel. Sherlock’s entire body locked up for a long moment, then he let out a groan so unbelievably _filthy_ John nearly came right there in his pants.

“Touch me, John, please,” Sherlock groaned. “Need you to touch me now. Need - _ah!"_

John gave him a second rough stroke with the heel of his palm, from his bollocks all the way up the underside of his cock, then flicked his flies open and tugged his jeans all the way off before bringing his attention back to Sherlock’s boxers. Also black, silky and shimmery but not as ridiculously overstated as the sparkly pants he wore on stage. These were real, the real pants the real Sherlock really wore when actually being himself, and John couldn’t resist the chance to run the tip of his nose up and down Sherlock’s cock through the silk before pulling the pants off, too, and then finally Sherlock was naked and writhing underneath him.

“Please, John, please fuck me.” Sherlock arched upward, straining for John’s touch, but he kept his hands fisted in the sheets at his sides. _Interesting._ “Want to feel your cock inside me, taking me apart from the inside out.”

 _Fuck yes._ “Lube? Condoms?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the top drawer of his bedside table. “There - _hurry,_ John!”

“Oh, I don’t think so - slowly, remember?” John leaned over Sherlock to reach the drawer, which put his own pants-clad erection within reach of Sherlock’s mouth. The hot swipe of lips and tongue caught John by surprise and he nearly kneed Sherlock in the ear. “Christ!”

“You’re still wearing underpants,” Sherlock explained with a blatantly fake contrite pout on his face.

John rolled his eyes, but he stripped the pants off and tossed them in the general direction of his other clothes. Sherlock took advantage of John having to move away - the moment John was no longer straddling his thighs, Sherlock had rolled over and had drawn his knees up under his torso. The result was a near-pornographic view of his gorgeous arse, propped up and ready for John to play.

He was holding the lube, of course, but John was perfectly content to draw this out as long as Sherlock could stand it. He dropped the small bottle and the condoms on the duvet with a growl, then anchored Sherlock’s hips with both hands and leaned down to deliver a long, hot lick all the way up the crack of Sherlock’s arse.

 _“Fuck,”_ Sherlock gasped.

John grinned - Sherlock couldn’t see him, but he might well be able to feel it - and delivered another long swipe. Slower, this time, taking in the taste of Sherlock’s skin on the underside of his bollocks and over his perineum and up the textured pucker around his hole and along the gently tapering curve of his arse. Sherlock squirmed beneath him, but John had a tight grip on his hips and no matter how much Sherlock wriggled and swore, he couldn’t make John do anything he damn well didn’t plan to do. And right now, John planned to take Sherlock apart completely.

It didn’t take long. Sherlock was a sobbing, helpless mess within two minutes of John’s focused attention on his arse. Rimming was something John had always particularly enjoyed, especially since Sherlock was almost all bones and lithe, lean muscles and had obviously just showered at work after his shift on stage was over so his skin was soft and smelled vaguely of body wash. John didn’t even have to tell Sherlock not to touch himself - Sherlock’s cock was heavy and dripping already, dangling between his legs as John worked, but Sherlock kept his head planted on his folded arms and neither of them mentioned it. Only when Sherlock’s whimpers started to cross over into incoherency did John sit back and smear some of the lube over his left forefingers.

“Oh, yes, _please_ John!” Sherlock groaned, watching John’s motions in his peripheral vision. “Do it - I can’t last much longer. I need you in me, John, please!”

John responded by tracing Sherlock’s hole with one slick finger and then pressing gently inside. Sherlock threw his head back and howled. God, he was so warm and tight . . . John quickly added a second finger, scissoring them apart and prodding delicately until Sherlock was reduced to wordlessly begging to be fucked because his voice was no longer reliable. John was practically ready to burst himself, despite not having touched his own cock at all. He sucked in a breath and had to take a few seconds before tugging on the condom and lubing himself up, to keep from coming before even getting started. “Slow” could go hang - John needed Sherlock’s tight arse _right the fuck now,_ thankyouverymuch, and from the sounds Sherlock was making, he was in complete agreement.

They both groaned when John lined himself up and gently pressed home. He took it as slow as he could without actually imploding, but every inch was a revelation. For both of them, if Sherlock’s profane monologue could be believed. Finally, _finally_ John was bottomed out against Sherlock’s stretched arse and his bollocks brushed Sherlock’s and he paused for a long moment, just acclimating to the feeling.

“Good?” he asked.

 _“Nnngh,”_ Sherlock panted. “John Watson, if you don’t bugger me into this mattress _right this very instant_ I swear I will never forgive you.”

Suddenly John couldn’t think of a single reason why that wasn’t the most brilliant idea in the history of brilliant ideas. He withdrew almost all the way, then snapped his hips forward with a force that drove Sherlock’s face down into the pillow and ripped a loud moan from both of them. If Sherlock wanted to be fucked into the mattress, John was damn well going to comply. He set a punishing pace, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s hips so hard he was sure to leave bruises, but Sherlock was with him every moment of the way. Sherlock’s landlady had better be a bloody heavy sleeper, or she’d swear someone was being murdered upstairs.

“God, John, I’m there - _touch me,_ please!”

John reached around Sherlock’s hip to grab his dripping cock. Sherlock choked back a sob and his rhythm stuttered, torn between impaling himself backwards on John’s cock and thrusting forward into John’s firm fist. The result was like a train wreck in slow motion - John thrust hard once more, twice, then he was seizing up in a blinding orgasm and Sherlock was shuddering underneath him, whimpering into the pillow with a voice that was already hoarse from shouting. They collapsed flat onto the bed together, John’s cock still in Sherlock’s arse, until John finally recovered enough muscle control to pull out and take care of the condom and to roll over to lie flat on his back and stare blankly at the ceiling as they both tried to get their breathing back to normal.

“That was bloody incredible,” Sherlock gasped. “I’m never doubting you again.”

John snorted. “You doubted me?”

“I was cautiously optimistic,” Sherlock admitted. “Not the same thing.”

“I see I’ve still got some promises to fulfill, then,” John replied. "You may recall I said something about all night.”

Sherlock rolled over to a semi-fetal position, his eyes wide. “You’re not desperate to get away yet?”

The expression on his face . . . John had a stunning moment of realization. _He doesn’t do this._ Before this evening, John would have assumed Sherlock regularly slept with a few particular fans - most of the dancers did; keeping a sugar daddy was a perk of the job and Greg didn’t complain as long as it didn’t affect their work. But Sherlock’s reaction indicated that maybe he wasn’t used to this. He was good at sex, no question, but he seemed to expect that John would lose all interest in him the moment his orgasm was over . . .

“I’ll go now if you want me to,” John said slowly, “but I’d much rather stay and enjoy the afterglow for a bit. And then we can raid your kitchen for a midnight snack, and enjoy a lovely slow bout of fucking so gorgeous it makes your teeth hurt, and then we can both fall asleep and deal with the fallout in the morning. Believe it or not, I can make a decent fry-up, if you’ve got anything to cook with. And I’ll ask you what you do when you’re not dancing and you’ll ask me about what I did before I started working at the club and we’ll both laugh about how Anderson is a bloody wanker with a stick up his arse about you and then maybe we can plan to do this again sometime.”

Sherlock blinked. He looked entirely lost, and John couldn’t resist grabbing his hand and giving it a good squeeze. “Or whatever you want,” John amended. “If you want this to just have been a bloody good shag, that’s okay too - but I’d love to get to know you a bit better. When I’m not so horny I can’t think straight. You’re an interesting bloke, Sherlock - I could see us getting to be friends.”

“Friends?” Sherlock licked his lips and ran his free palm over his throat in what had to be an unconscious nervous gesture. “I don’t . . . I’ve never really had one of those.”

“You should try it,” John said. “Friends are lovely. And life is a lot less lonely that way.”

“I . . . all right?” Sherlock looked down at where their fingers were still intertwined. “I’ll probably bollocks it up, though.”

“S’aright, so will I.” John shot him a comforting smile. “But we’ll get through it. Believe it or not, I’ve got a feeling that you’re going to be the best thing to have happened to me in a long, long time.”

Sherlock’s nervous expression melted into a hesitant answering smile. “For me, too,” he said quietly. “I think so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning the smut, but the feels kind of snuck in there when I wasn't looking. Hope you enjoyed this little glimpse into an AU, everyone! Check out my other works for some longer Johnlock stories and a crapton of shorter kinky pieces.


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